


Reconciliation

by chrysoshelios (solisaureus)



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solisaureus/pseuds/chrysoshelios
Summary: Hector is ushered to Elysium after his death, but he remains haunted by the animalistic rage in the eyes of his killer, and wonders what kind of man he once was. In his search for Achilles, he encounters Patroclus instead, and through time and talking the wounds of the war begin to heal.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Andromache/Hector (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 242





	1. Chapter 1

They called him _Aristos Achaean_ , the man who took Hector’s life. 

What did it say about the Greeks? That the very best of them would sit idle as they fell to slaughter, would come only to the defense of a man who had already perished? Hector had never seen his face, only glimpses of his brilliant armor flashing like the wings of a phoenix as legions of Trojans fell before his ashen spear. When word came that he was the meteor barreling toward the city walls, leaving a path of torn destruction behind him like the arrow that pierces flesh, his brother Deiphobus told him: “That is _Aristos Achaean._ He is coming for you.”

Not the city, not the people. You. 

When he could not run anymore, Hector faced the best of the Greeks, the one who had come for his blood in the spirit of vengeance. For the first and last time, he beheld the warrior they said was invincible, who was supposedly a child of gods, who had broken so many of Priam’s sons. The chase had not tired him, like it had Hector; red blood beat below his skin and his limbs trembled, but Hector knew it was with an electric, tireless rage. Cold blue eyes pinned his enemy through bruised, bloodshot sockets. He wielded the spear the way a beast bared its fangs.

“There are no pacts of faith between lions and men,” he said. 

He knew how to pierce his own armor. It was over before Hector caught his breath.

\--

Every hour that delayed Hector’s funeral was agonizing. Each time Achilles lashed his corpse to his wheels to drag it around his camp, Hector looked on and bemoaned his regrets. It was a cruel mockery of life, like a fish gasping on land at the mercy of its captor. He watched Achilles, starved and encrusted with the rotten blood of Trojan battalions, stalking around like an untamed beast. His face, which was once said to rival that of Aphrodite’s beloved Paris, had become gaunt and haggard with loss. He was a dead man walking in every way.

Hector could have fallen victim to the same fate, if the Achaean army had not kept him from claiming the corpse of Patroclus. He knew his spirit was no greater than the man who desecrated his body before the eyes of his family, denying them peace in their grief. He would have inflicted the same upon him if he had the chance. Would he have become the same feral creature that keeps him from joining the shades now? 

The meaningless war, and its twisted mercies.

\--

Elysium is not what Hector pictured all his life, the vision he held onto as he prayed to the gods and gave thanks to Apollo and Zeus for keeping Ilium safe and bountiful. It is lush and green, abundant in riches both natural and manmade. That much he had predicted. But it is so -- so empty. Reserved only for the greatest heroes, the bravest of a race that is naturally cautious. Some of Hector’s brothers greet him when he arrives, but not nearly as many as he was anticipating. It strikes him that he will likely never see Andromache again. The very thought completely drains the luster from the paradise around him.

In the dim, hollow light, his regrets outshine the bounty of Elysium. He remains haunted by visions of shattered shields, of friends rent in half by Greek bronze, of his infant son recoiling in terror from his own father’s helm. The raw hate behind the reddened eyes of Achilles burns brightest in his mind. What pain could have driven him to such ferocity? What exactly had Hector taken from him in slaying Patroclus? 

It may be far too late, but boundless eternity seemed a good time to make amends. Surely the best of the Greeks is somewhere in this realm of heroes, and Hector has little better to do with his ceaseless time than seek him out.

\--

It is near impossible to gauge time in Elysium, but Hector is beginning to think his search is taking too long. He hasn’t encountered Achilles, but neither has he heard anyone speak of him. The man claimed so many lives at once that he turned the waters of the Scamander to a bloody crimson -- a legend like that should be easy to find. But there is not a single vestige of him. If not for the omega-shaped spear point that followed Hector to the underworld, he may as well have imagined him.

He is close to forgetting the endeavor entirely when he hears something unusual for Elysium: a familiar voice. He follows the sound of bitter muttering to a misty glade, carved into sharp angles by the Lethe. At the crest of a grassy hill sits --

Hector stops abruptly, then turns around and heads back the way he came.

\--

Hector cannot help peering into the glade whenever he comes across it. He could not believe his eyes at first; Patroclus, the man who turned the tide of the Trojan War. More than Hector, more than even Achilles. The gravest error that Hector ever made, the seal on the order of his own doom. Here he is, alone in paradise just like his killer.

And he is alone, every time Hector sees him. The way he spoke of Achilles in his last breaths, the way that Achilles’s voice ripped into jagged pieces when he laid Hector’s unforgivable sin at his feet...the two must have been close. Where is Achilles? Why are they not together?

Hector steels himself and approaches Patroclus, crossing the stone bridge over the river of oblivion. Patroclus halts his muttering, his dark gaze rising from the newcomer’s feet to his face.

For a moment, the two men regard each other in silence with unreadable expressions. Then Patroclus reaches behind himself, pulling a smooth metal object from the folds of his cloak and offering it up. “You found me. I’ve been meaning to return this to you.”

Hector recognizes the broken point of his own spear. The last time he saw it, he had just buried it deep into another man’s chest. “I thought you would be angry,” he says, making no move to take it. “You certainly did not hold back when last we met.”

Patroclus sighs and sets the spearpoint down. “If this meeting had come a little sooner, perhaps I would be. Anger burns hot, then burns out. Why have you come here, Prince of Troy?” 

Hector hesitates. “I should have heeded you. You spoke true when you predicted my death at the hands of Achilles.”

The name makes Patroclus wince, almost imperceptibly. “There was nothing you could have done. You must know that you sealed your own fate the instant you executed mine.”

“I tried to reason with him.”

Patroclus scoffs. “As did I.”

“Where is he?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is dead by now.”

“You have not seen him.”

“He must think that I abandoned him,” Patroclus says under his breath, as though speaking to himself. “As though I had any other choice.”

Hector looks at him, tensing his jaw. He turns aside. “I will leave you.”

Patroclus does not acknowledge him, speaking to himself without raising his head as Hector backs away.

\--

Perhaps it is guilt that urges Hector back to Patroclus’s glade. Perhaps it is pity. But under the surface of the obvious, the place where Hector’s heart once was aches with an ineffable compulsion to return again and again. As time passes, more of Hector’s comrades and family trickle into the afterlife: his father Priam, Glaucus, who lost his life in the battle for the body of Achilles, and eventually Paris, who started it all. Hector does not want for company, and yet...there is something incomplete that only speaking with Patroclus can provide.

Sometimes he looks up when Hector enters, but most of the time he carries on with his musings as though he were still alone. This time, he nods at Hector in greeting and gestures to a spot on the stone circle beside him. Hector pauses, fighting with himself, and then gratefully kneels on the ground.

“I have been meaning to ask you something, Prince of Troy,” Patroclus says when he is settled. “Who was it who took down Achilles, in the end? For they said only you wielded the strength for such a feat.”

Hector shakes his head. “No, I stood no chance against his rage. It was my brother, Paris. Struck him with an arrow in the heel, he said.”

“Paris? _Tsch._ ” Patroclus scoffs. “That is almost embarrassing for Achilles. _Aristos Achaean_ , bested by that cowardly peacock.”

“The others told me that Achilles was...different, after my funeral,” Hector says, clearing his throat. “The fury that terrified us all was smothered to ash. He put up little fight, before the end. Almost as if he were…”

“Asking for it?” Patroclus supplies. “The fool. Feeding right into the Fates’ design. What was it all for, then? If he was always just going to give up? He sacrificed so much for glory, only to let himself be killed by such a weakling.” He shakes his head, clearing away his regrets as he remembers Hector’s presence. “You will forgive me if I have nothing kind to say about your brother.”

The statement startles Hector into a sharp chuckle, his shoulders shaking with rare laughter. “I will, and you are hardly the only one. He is my family, and I was bound to protect him, but there were many occasions when I nearly throttled him myself.”

“You should have. Would have saved us all quite a bit of trouble.”

Hector laughs again. “Something tells me that it wouldn’t have put a stop to the fighting.”

Patroclus sighs. “You speak true. Only one man’s death could have broken the endless deadlock of that wretched war. And it was not Paris.”

Hector understands his meaning instantly, and bows his head. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I suppose it would sound disingenuous if I told you I regret the way I slew you.”

“Indeed, it would, and I don’t want you to,” Patroclus says. “War is brutal. I knew that when I put Achilles’s armor on. Regrets are meaningless now.”

Hector hums. He wonders if he could say the same to Achilles, if he saw him now.

“And you can hardly take credit for my defeat, besides,” Patroclus adds. “When it was Apollo who shattered my defenses for you.”

Hector cracks a smile. “They said that Apollo guided the arrow that pierced Achilles, as well.”

Patroclus sighs theatrically. “I don’t know why we mortals bother with fighting at all.”

“No,” Hector agrees. “Neither do I.”

\--

Patroclus seems a fraction less despondent when Hector visits him, after that. He still hasn’t risen from his spot on the ground, and he is far from content, but the occasional company seems to distract him from his churning thoughts for a time. 

Hector sits down across from him, holding a sheet of dried meat that the Stygian boatman offered him earlier like he was doling out rations. “Have you gotten any of these strange gifts, too?” he asks.

Patroclus rummages for a goblet of deep red liquid, too bright to be wine. “Supplements for those who care to challenge the champions. I have no need for them.”

“Nor I,” Hector agrees. “Jerky was never much to my tastes, anyway. Andromache and I always preferred a good roasted fish.”

“Andromache?” Patroclus inquires.

Hector catches himself. Is it possible that this is the first time he’s brought her up? “My...my wife,” he says. “She was a good woman, but judged unfit to join the ranks of heroes. She must be roaming the Asphodel meadows…”

“I never knew you were married.”

“I was,” Hector says, looking down at his hands. “We had a son. Astyanax. He was but a babe when I perished. I often think of him, and wonder what kind of man he’s become.”

Patroclus is quiet. Bittersweet silence perfuses the air like the mist from the river. 

“Were you ever married?” Hector asks at length. _Did you leave anybody behind?_ is what he cannot say.

Patroclus breathes a sardonic chuckle. “No, I was not. Not in title, anyway. I had a rather different kind of bond in my life.”

Hector recalls the bereaved scream that ripped across the battlefield, that pierced the walls of Troy when Patroclus’s body was brought to the Achaean camp. He remembers the bloodshot, tear-streaked face that dealt his death without mercy. “You and Achilles,” he says simply.

“He was my _philtatos._ ” Patroclus says with a sigh. “I never wanted to leave him. But he gave me no choice. And now...now he has left me.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. That man would have split the very heavens if it could have brought you back,” Hector says. “We cannot always know what others are thinking.”

“That is true, I suppose. I could not guess his thoughts often, in the late years of the war. Not the way I used to be able to.”

“Did the war change him much?”

Patroclus looks weary, like a much older man. “Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

It is a strange request, and Hector is not sure what made him ask it. Perhaps he is moved by the shared misery of spending eternity apart from the one they love. Perhaps he is still haunted by that predator’s gaze, constantly wondering about the man that was once behind it. Patroclus looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but then he shrugs and shares little details of his life before Troy. Achilles was an accomplished lyrist, and Patroclus regrets that his hands will be known forever as the hands of a killer when they could create such beautiful sounds. He had been a prince from a land called Phthia, and loved his father, Peleus. The longer Patroclus speaks of him, the lines of his face become shallower and more lively. His bitter tone steadily gives way to fondness, the affection he has held onto all this time shining through his words. By the time he tires of speaking, it is hard for Hector to reconcile the account with the inhuman creature he met that day on the battlefield.

Hector finally begins to grasp what he had taken from Achilles. In one horrible strike of his spear, he shattered the spirit of a man who had once been a carefree boy, a devoted son, a tender partner. He extinguished the life of one with such love in his heart, who he has learned far too late is so much like himself. Patroclus said that regrets are meaningless in the afterlife, but Hector is overcome in an instant.

He stands suddenly, and Patroclus blinks at him. “There must be a way to make this right. Achilles belongs in Elysium, at your side. The only way the three of us will ever have peace is if he is returned there.”

Patroclus’s expression shutters again. “Oh, are you just going to go and fetch him for me, then? How bold.”

“I...I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Hector says, shaking his head. “But there must be a way. There has to be. I must try.”

“By all means,” Patroclus says, waving his hand. “You are most welcome to share in my futile endeavors.”

Hector stares at him for a minute, then turns to leave, filled with a sense of purpose for the first time since he met with Achilles’s spear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really pleased and surprised with the positive reception that the first part of this fic received!! A couple of you wondered if I would continue this, and I batted the idea around in my head until it started taking form (like a little ball of bread dough). I hope you like it!
> 
> CW for graphic depictions of violence from the Trojan War

Hector’s strength never lay in wit or ingenuity; he was revered instead for his fortitude, his perseverance, his dependability. With the stagnant decade of battle outside his city’s walls and the tireless Greek army insistent in their siege, these qualities were essential in Troy’s most capable defender. He finds that his indefatigable willpower is an asset once again in his fruitless search for Achilles, but as time goes on he finds himself regretting that he was never a favorite of the grey-eyed maiden. 

Plainly stated, Hector has no idea what to do except wait.

A part of him feels foolish -- he had so brazenly sworn to Patroclus that he would bring their shared story to a peaceful close by filling the tangible, painful void left by Achilles, wherever he’s gone. For a while after this declaration, Patroclus would remark on the futility of his undertaking on the occasions when Hector would visit him in his glade. But he has said nothing of it for some time, as though he’s surrendered even the bitter vestiges of hope, implicitly suggesting that Hector do the same. 

Hector has not been able to face him lately. With each visit, the Greek’s posture seems to sink further into the ground, the translucent edges of his shade’s form blurring more and more. All throughout Elysium, there are scores of shades that have faded to nothing more than an abstract feeling, the spirits of once-great figures indulging in the Lethe to erase their personhood for an eternity of mindless tranquility. Hector knows that Patroclus has partaken of the drink of oblivion more than a few times himself, and the waters slipping through his cupped fingers may as well be sand in the hourglass. There is a deadline on the task Hector has chosen for himself before it becomes completely pointless, and it is approaching with unsettling urgency. 

During his time on the mortal plane, such a restriction might have urged Hector on like the water turning a miller’s wheel -- forfeit was never on the table then, and there was always another approach, some obstacle that could be overcome with time and will. But not here, not in a realm that is meant to be a paradise, but which binds him like a prison. Not in the idyllic fields that inexorably keep him from his Andromache, that restrict him with chains that never would have held him in life. 

Among these legends and heroes, amidst his eternal reward for remarkable strength and bravery, Hector has never felt more powerless.

\--

He is not giving up, necessarily, when he finally brings himself to approach Patroclus again after his extended absence. In fact, he worries that if he stays away much longer, that’s precisely the conclusion that Patroclus will draw. Hector feels guilty for avoiding his...friend, he supposes. Life on earth hardly has a precedent for what to call it when one finds companionship with their own killer. Yet, although there isn’t a better word for their unsteady, peculiar bond, he still hesitates with the title. Regardless, Patroclus has not found company with anyone else, to his knowledge, and he shouldn’t be spending his afterlife in solitude no matter how much he insists that he’d prefer to. 

If he cannot bring Achilles back to his side, the least that Hector can offer him is his honesty about his failure. And perhaps, somehow, Patroclus may have new insight that could be useful in the search.

Hector passes the familiar gate enclosing Patroclus’s usual glade, but he is greeted with a sound that makes him think he’s taken a wrong turn.

Up the crumbling stone steps, across the misty river, the sound of laughter carries down to Hector on the breeze. 

It is Patroclus’s voice, he realizes as he stands there slack-jawed. And, stranger yet, another deeper voice, rumbling gently beside it. Curiosity consumes him, and Hector crosses over to the stone circle where he has always found Patroclus seated.

He is not seated now. He stands broad-shouldered and relaxed, miraculously unburdened. Close to him, with their back turned to Hector as he enters, is a golden-haired figure dressed in emerald robes of the same style that Patroclus wears. Mirth sparkles in Patroclus’s dark eyes as he lifts them from his companion’s face to look at Hector over their shoulder. They widen as he meets Hector’s stunned gaze, his easy smile solidifying into a hard line.

Perhaps perplexed by the change in his expression, the stranger turns to face Hector. The moment his blue eyes behold him, they crystallize into chilling hatred.

Hector staggers backward, gripped instantly by innate terror. His mind flashes through jagged memories: the red river stinking of rot, the head of his lieutenant sliced cleanly in half, stray dogs ripping at the disemboweled corpses of Trojan soldiers, a bronze-tipped spear skewering out from his oldest friend’s eye socket, the broken, desolate wailing of his wife and mother, the gruesome slice of a spearpoint through the hollow of his own throat. Achilles’s grip tightens on his spear’s haft, and Hector runs just as he did all those years ago. 

\--

“Someone is here to see you, my son.”

Hector glances up from the hundredth wooden horse he’s carved since he came to Elysium, and meets his father’s interested gaze. They reside together with a handful of Hector’s brothers in a home that is far less spacious than their Trojan palace, but half as stifling. Having Priam there lessens the ache in his heart, but in every single moment he feels the absence of Andromache and Astyanax like a wound that simply will not heal. 

Hector straightens up, smoothing his tunic. He sometimes receives visits from admirers who have heard legends of his fame, or, on one occasion, from King Theseus of Athens who wished to know why the greatest prince of Troy has not yet challenged the champions. Hector puts a grateful hand on his father’s shoulder as he passes him in the doorway, stepping out into the hall where they receive visitors.

He fears he cannot hide the shock on his face when he is greeted by Patroclus, looking more solid and alive than ever. He quickly shakes his head and offers a welcoming smile.

In defiance of Hector’s expectations, Patroclus smiles back for once. “Surprised to see me, are you?”

There is an animated amusement coloring his tone of voice, and Hector cannot help but marvel at it. “I must confess that I am. I...did not know you knew where to find me,” he says, because he’s not sure how to confess that he’s astonished to see Patroclus leaving his glade.

“It’s not hard to locate the dwelling of King Priam and his sons. Your people are known for ostentatious architecture, you know.”

Hector cocks his head. “You don’t mean the wall, do you?”

“It’s hard to forget the grandiosity of a structure when you’ve been thrown off of it three times,” Patroclus says. 

Not quite sure how to respond to that, Hector ushers his guest to a cushioned seat and pours wine from their infinite stock into a pair of silver goblets. 

“I’ve come to explain,” Patroclus begins when he is settled. “You didn’t give me the chance before you fled from Achilles’s gaze as though he were Medusa.”

“So it was him,” Hector murmurs. “My impression was so strong, but I found myself doubting it nearly instantly. Then he’s returned to Elysium?”

“Not exactly. It’s a long and convoluted series of events, but...surely, you’ve heard word of the young son of Lord Hades passing through in attempts to reach the surface,” Patroclus says.

Hector nods, though he is at a loss to predict how this is relevant. 

“The Underworld Prince bears a rare and unusual characteristic among gods,” Patroclus says. “He is generous and kind, especially remarkable when you consider his father. In fact, he gives Achilles some credit in bringing it out in him as he came of age.”

Hector furrows his brows and leans forward. “You mean to say -- all this time, Achilles was…?”

“Playing mentor to a godling in the House of Hades, yes,” Patroclus confirms, amusement plain on his face. “I found it hard to believe at first, as well. Even harder to believe that he was one of the boy’s only nurturing influences, at that.”

Hector thought the same, though he knows better than to say so. “So much must have happened. Did Lord Hades select him as a servant because of his fame?” He isn’t sure whether it is blasphemous to imply that the god of the dead collected notable mortals like trophies in such a manner, but he is at a loss for another explanation.

Patroclus shakes his head. “No. The fool chose an eternity of servitude, in exchange for…” the shuttered look that Hector is accustomed to reappears on his face. “For my place in this solitary paradise.”

“But that defies reason. Did you not already have a place in Elysium?”

Patroclus chuckles under his breath. “I was just getting comfortable in Asphodel when I was unceremoniously brought up here.”

Hector blinks. “Asphodel.”

“Yes.”

“But your actions broke the stalemate of the war.”

“One could argue that.”

“You slew Sarpedon, son of Zeus.”

“I did.”

“You came closer to taking my city in one day than your entire army had over the previous ten years.”

“And yet.”

“And yet Paris earned his eternal glory in death for firing a single arrow,” Hector says, sitting back in his seat. 

“In the end, Lord Minos deemed me an ordinary man in a hero’s armor, rather than a hero myself,” Patroclus says with a sigh. He seems disappointed, inconvenienced, like he is lamenting the loss of a ripe fig to a hungry hart rather than being cheated of the most enviable reward for the rest of all time.

Hector takes a deep breath, reminding himself to respect his immortal betters before he speaks. “We may have been enemies during the war, but I...would not have judged you thus.”

Patroclus chuckles. “Nor would Achilles. Thus his misguided choice.”

“Why do you call it misguided?” Hector asks. 

Patroclus cocks an eyebrow. “Is this place truly paradise, without the one you love? What would your wife say, if you bartered your freedom to place her in a gilded cage?”

Hector swallows. The hurtful words find their mark, flaying the pain in his heart. 

“Forgive me,” Patroclus says gently. “It is not my intention to press on the wound.”

“No, you’re right,” Hector stops him with a hand. “She would -- she would have similar objections. But...his service, then, it’s ended?”

“He is permitted to visit me when he is not on guard duty, thanks to the intervention of his intrepid ward.” Patroclus meets his eyes with a serious look. “I wanted to apologize for his...greeting, the other day, or night. He was certainly surprised to see you.”

“May I assume that he has no wish to see me again?” Hector asks, and as the words leave his lips he is unsure what answer he hopes to hear.

Patroclus sighs, tapping the side of his goblet thoughtfully. “I explained to Achilles why you appeared, about our past meetings. He seems guarded about the entire subject. His time in service of Lord Hades has smoothed his rough edges and given him much time to reflect on his life; he is much more level-headed than the Achilles I knew.” He breathes a soft, fond laugh. “He professed no small amount of remorse for his role in my demise when we were first reunited, but I sense that there are regrets that still linger around him, those which I cannot banish myself.”

“What do you suggest, then?” Hector says.

“You once said that restoring Achilles’s place here is the only way the three of us will have peace,” Patroclus says. “Tell me, did you find peace in seeking reconciliation with me after you so crudely took my life?”

Hector bites his lip in thought, then lifts his head and meets Patroclus’s eyes. “Did you?”

Patroclus smiles, drains his goblet, and stands to leave. “You know where to find us, Prince of Troy.”

\--

When Hector decides to return to the glade, he is greeted once again by the sound of hushed voices engaged in some private conversation. He is confronted with the urge to leave without announcing his presence; the two lovers have spent so long apart, and it feels wrong to interrupt them again. But he shakes it off, steeling himself with the reminder that they are expecting him anyway, and makes his way over to them.

This time, Patroclus is seated and facing the river, while Achilles is facing him as he crests the stone stairs. Hector swallows the instinctive fright that forced him to flee before. Achilles’s expression is neutral and stiff as he looks at him, and Hector is at a complete loss to predict the thoughts behind those eyes. Hector takes a moment to observe him in turn, as this is the first he has seen him up close without his armor and helm. The face that was so wretched in grief is now restored in death, though weariness still weathers his fine features. Seeing his luminous curtain of hair now that it is not unwashed, tangled, and blood-soaked, Hector finally understands the tales extolling his beauty. 

Only the Fates know what Achilles sees in Hector as he scrutinizes him.

“Hector,” he finally says. His voice is soft, like a young father speaking to a child. Not at all like the torn vocal chords that shrieked after Hector as he was hunted down like wounded prey. 

“...Achilles,” Hector says. “It pleases me to see you returned to the glory of Elysium.”

“I am not here for glory. Not anymore,” Achilles says. “Patroclus tells me the two of you spoke often in my absence.”

“Yes,” Hector confirms, though he is wary of the reaction. In Achilles’s place, it would not sit well with him were his beloved left alone with the one who killed him. 

But Achilles’s expression softens, and he sighs. “Patroclus has always been a better man than me. I doubt I would have treated you with such civility. Even now, though my rage has long been hollowed out of me, I find it difficult to face you.”

Hector nods, and lets a moment put space between them. “One thing I have learned since last we met is the gravity of the suffering I must have inflicted upon you when I took your partner’s life. Would that I had not learned it far too late.” He pauses, a breath. “What I mean to say is that I understand your hesitation. Time alone cannot heal all wounds.”

“No. No, it cannot.”

The two wander toward the stone circle where Patroclus normally sits, and settle down across from each other. Patroclus himself is sitting just out of earshot on the banks of the Lethe, holding what looks to be a fishing rod, though Hector has doubts of whether the Underworld’s rivers contain any denizens. For a while, they all sit and enjoy the quiet peace that is the hallmark of Elysium, Achilles catching glimpses of Patroclus every few seconds as though he keeps expecting him to vanish. 

“What else did he tell you?” Hector says, eventually breaking the silence. He gets the sense that it may be easier to appeal to Achilles through his partner, rather than directly. 

Achilles meets his eyes, blinks twice, and looks away. “He said you told him that you regret the way you slew him.”

“I did.”

“I do not regret slaying you.”

Hector says nothing. The statement does not surprise him.

“I do not regret slaying you,” Achilles repeats, softer. “Not after what you had done. But...I do regret my desecration of your body. Your family, your father...he was honorable. I went too far.”

“You gave my body back to him, when he asked,” Hector says. Priam had told him all about his strangely hospitable encounter with Achilles soon after he was reunited with his beloved son in the afterlife.

“It should not have come to that,” Achilles says, shaking his head. “Did you ever hear of the prophecy concerning my life?”

Hector shakes his head.

“The Fates told my mother that I would live a long life but lose my name to history, unless I went to Troy. The price to win eternal glory was steep; they predicted that I would die young if I fought in the war. My mother tried to stop me, she even tried to hide me, but I thought it was a worthy exchange. If I’d known how eagerly I would trade the glory I’d won in honor of Patroclus, I could have just stayed home with him and been much happier.” He pauses, looking up at Hector. “Your name was mentioned in this prophecy.”

“Mine was?” Hector says. He has never heard of such a thing.

“The Fates promised that I would not die before Hector of Troy. In the years before the war, and even as we fought, Patroclus and I...we used to say…” He looks down at his hands.

“What?”

Achilles takes a deep breath. “If Patroclus ever worried for my safety, I would reassure him that you still lived, that you would die by no one’s hand but my own. And I always told him.” He hangs his head, his hair obscuring his face. “I always told him, ‘What has Hector done to me?’”

Hector’s heart drops like a stone. _Regrets are meaningless in the afterlife,_ he reminds himself.

“I never once thought Patroclus would die before me. Neither of us did,” Achilles continues. “He is more than capable himself, and I believed that as long as I lived I would never allow him to come to harm.” His voice wavers nearly imperceptibly on the last syllable, but Hector does not miss it.

“The Fates have a way of thwarting our deepest-held certainties,” Hector says. 

“I have come to accept that I bear just as much of the blame for his death as you do. Perhaps even more,” Achilles says. “I hated you, but I mostly hated myself.”

“Did your wrath subside when I was dead?” Hector asks.

“It subsided only when your father kissed my hands in supplication. I was empty still, I knew I would not ever be whole again while I lived. But the hatred did not end with killing you, as I had hoped.”

A breeze shuffles the leaves of the laurel trees above them. “Patroclus says you have found more peace, since he was with you.”

Achilles starts, then chuckles. “Time alone may not heal all wounds, but I believe that perhaps the Underworld’s Prince could. He insists that he has no godly domain, but after watching him come into his own, I think it may be blood, life, rebirth, and recovery. Second chances. Defiance of fate.”

“He sounds remarkable,” Hector says, and he recognizes his own paternal pride and fondness in Achilles’s face across from him. “Perhaps I may meet this god of blood one day.”

“Perhaps you may,” Achilles says, and when he meets Hector’s gaze, his eyes are melting frost, spring after winter, clear skies after a ravaging storm. The two of them may never be friends, may never even speak again once this gathering has come to a close, but reconciliation is enough. After ages spent without purpose, clawing at the edges of Elysium like a caged beast, Hector’s shade feels unfettered by despair for the first time. Peace has finally come for Achilles and Patroclus, and is beginning to bloom within Hector like a crocus bud breaking through snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am done with this now :) It was difficult to picture Achilles' reaction to meeting Hector again, I think that while he's definitely chiller in Hades there was a looootttttt of rage that doesn't just go away. I hope I managed to strike the right balance here.
> 
> Also, I drew from the song of achilles just a teeny bit at the end there, with the "what has hector ever done to me" line. I felt like it was too good not to use.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by this awesome Hector fan design: https://twitter.com/shazari/status/1356126372658348033?s=20
> 
> I love the story of the Iliad and I love Hector and I love the arc of Patroclus and Achilles in Hades. I would have loved to see reconciling with Hector tied in, so I wrote what I pictured!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on twitter at solisaureus :)


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